Through the still boughs the sunlight fell, as it seemed to me, in
little molten streams, and I pushed back my chair still deeper into the
shadow of the elm.
Even there it was not cool, but at any rate the contrast to the glaring
close-cropped lawn was welcome.
I stared up through the listless, delicate leaves into a sky of
Mediterranean blue. Surely, it was the hottest day of summer--of memory.
The flowers with which my little garden is so profusely peopled hung
languorously above the borders, and the hum of a binder in the
neighbouring wheat field seemed an invitation to siesta.
Down sunny paths, I dropped into oblivion.
A touch awoke me, but my eyes were held tight beneath a pair of cool
hands.
"Good gracious," I gasped. "Bless my----"
Tommy laughed and sauntered into view.
"You were making a beastly row," he observed, frankly. "I thought it was
a thunderstorm."